


The Waiters

by recoveringrabbit



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Gen, Third Party POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-19
Updated: 2015-10-19
Packaged: 2018-04-27 02:30:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5030209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/recoveringrabbit/pseuds/recoveringrabbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of a reservation held for six months.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Waiters

Edward has worked at Vincenzo’s for ten years—an eon in food service—and seen countless human dramas play out in that time. Italian is the food of love, after all. First dates, last dates, anniversaries…it is a rare week without at least one proposal. From his position as maître’d, Edward has a front row seat to them all. He prides himself on his ability to guess which table will experience which event and appear at hand with the perfect beverage to celebrate or commiserate, as the case may be. After so long, he can almost tell from the first minutes. He could almost tell from the first sentence. So when he picks up the phone one evening as a favor to Christy the hostess, the wine cellar catalogue in his head starts flipping.

“I’d like a reservation,” a determined voice says on the other end. Edward has to concentrate to cut through the man’s brogue. “For two. The best table possible.”

“Certainly, sir. Let me check our availability.” As he pulls up the calendar, he begins his assessment: urgency, intimacy, intentionality, no nervousness. Something important, but not brand-new. Red wine, then—nothing too old. “When did you want to dine, sir?”

“Well—” The man stops, takes a heavy, shuddering breath. “My—she, um—it was supposed to be tonight, but she was—she left town, suddenly, and I don’t know when—”

“Perhaps you could call back after you’ve spoken with her?” Edward suggests, but the man has come to some sort of decision.

“Next Saturday. Can we do next Saturday?”

“At six-thirty or eight o’clock, sir?”

“Six-thirty,” the man answers promptly, voice softening. “She likes to have enough time to digest before she goes to sleep.”

A long-standing relationship, perhaps in danger? Slightly more expensive wine, to show his dedication. “Of course, sir. What name shall I put the reservation under?”

“Fitz.”

“Very well, Mr. Fitz. A table for two, next Saturday at six-thirty. Feel free to call if you need to change.”

“She’ll be back by then,” he says with steel in his voice, and hangs up. Edward jots down his drink notes and forgets about it until the next week, when he happens to be at the front desk to hear Christy handle the cancellation. No, not a cancellation—a reschedule. “Do you want me to transfer these notes?” she asks him, copying the same reservation into the next week.

He peers at it, remembering the conversation. “How did he sound?”

Christy shrugs. “Normal. He stuttered a little. Didn’t say much except he fully expected to make it this time.”

“Leave it then,” Edward says, musing on the possible scenarios. Well, perhaps her time out of town was extended as suddenly as it had been required. Such things were not impossible. No doubt they _would_ make it next Saturday.

Sure enough, Mr. Fitz’s reserved table is filled the next week, a slightly awkward young professional sitting across from a nicely turned-out woman who is either very tired or very bored. Edward approaches with the wine list, confident in his suggestions if a little disappointed that the couple in front of him didn’t match the one in his head. But when the man gives their order, there is no trace of the accent. This isn’t Mr. Fitz.

As soon as he catches a lull, Edward hurries to the desk. “Did Mr. Fitz cancel again?” he demands.

Chelsea, the part-time hostess who is working her way through a master’s, looks at him blankly. “Who?”

“There was a reservation. At six-thirty. Under the name Fitz. Did he cancel it?” 

Looking at him as though she isn’t sure of his sobriety, she checks. “Oh, that guy? No, he just rescheduled for next week at the same time.” She taps the end of her pencil against the screen. “Yeah, it was kind of weird. He sounded like he had been crying. Do you want these notes?”

 _Two_ postponements. That isn’t just scheduling—two postponements meant something is wrong. An accident? Has the mysterious woman left him and he is refusing to acknowledge it? Either way, the old drinks are no longer applicable. He waves away her question, going back to his work more preoccupied than he should be.

The next week, he haunts the hostess desk and leaps for the call every time the phone rings. Christy glares at him as she folds napkins. But he has found himself thinking about Mr. Fitz more than once during the week, and he doesn’t want to rely on secondhand impressions any more. He is going to get to the bottom of this. When, after seven false alarms, he finally hears the Scottish lilt he remembers, he is almost knocked over at the difference. Mr. Fitz now sounds beaten, broken, like he has lost his only friend in the world. “Look,” he sighs, “is there any way I could just reserve a table for the foreseeable future and let you know ahead of time if I can’t make it? It doesn’t have to be the best table. It just has to be there when she comes home.”

“Of course,” he says, ignoring Christy’s dramatic ‘no’ gesture. “As long as you let us know in plenty of time, we can save something for you. When you say the foreseeable future…”

“I mean until Doomsday. Or I die trying to get her back.”

Edward’s eyebrows rise in tandem with Christy’s. _He’s a nut_ , she mouths, and he would be inclined to agree if Mr. Fitz sounded even slightly more desperate, rather than just terribly sad. “But not this week,” he says instead.

“No,” Mr. Fitz says, and hangs up.

“You’re going to get in trouble.” Christy pulls the corners of her mouth back. “How is it worth it?”

Edward thinks of his long tenure at Vincenzo’s and weighs it against a favor for a possibly crazy man he has now spoken to a grand total of twice. It should be no contest. It is not. “I don’t know,” he says finally, “but one more week can’t hurt.”

One week stretches into two, to four, to seven. The rest of the wait staff starts to notice the carefully arranged table that always begins the evening reserved and loses its sign halfway through, but no one says anything to Edward. The privileges of seniority. Initially skeptical, by the fifth week Christy and Chelsea are worn down in spite of themselves. They begin speculating, talking about Mr. Fitz and his lady love as if they are characters in a television show that are somehow destined for a proper conclusion, whether happy or sad.

Christy texts Chelsea: _Not this week. Maybe she’s an undercover journalist in war-torn Africa. I think he really loves her._

Chelsea texts back: _Doesn’t mean he’s not a creeper_. But the next week she sends: _Not this week. Maybe she’s in a coma and he’s a doctor trying to save her life_.

At 6:28 on the eleventh week since Mr. Fitz first called, Chelsea beckons Edward to the desk. “He hasn’t cancelled,” she whispers, eyes bright.  Edward feels like pumping his fist in the air, a thing he hasn’t done since the 80s and never in uniform. Together, they watch every couple that comes through the doors until a short man in a leather jacket steps up to the desk and says “Reservation under Fitz, I think?” The blond woman beside him nods confirmation.

“But you’re not him,” Chelsea says, then claps a hand over her mouth. Fortunately, the patrons both chuckle.

The woman shakes her head. “No, but we’re friends of his, and he was kind enough to let us use his reservation.”

“It’s our anniversary,” the man adds with a wink. “Five years now we’ve been divorced.”

Reigning in his disappointment, Edward leads the way to the table. This is a situation he can’t recall facing before and he ought to take it as a challenge, but he can’t quite bring himself to care. For a couple having dinner to celebrate their divorce he thinks something with a sense of humor is necessary. For a woman wearing a knee brace and wincing as she walked, something that won’t interact badly with medication. He listlessly suggests Italian sodas and is a little surprised to be taken up on it. The fizzy syrup and cream wouldn’t be his first choice to go with the expensive meal they order, but they seem content, talking and toasting each other long into the second service. They look like nice people, he thinks—well, not nice, exactly, but good.

When they signal for the check, Chelsea hands him the slim black folder with a significant look. “Ask them.”

He frowns disapprovingly, having already explained to her what a breach of behavior that would be.

“Ask them,” she says again, more firmly. “When else are you going to get a chance?”

“It’s not my business.”

“It _is_.”

He just shakes his head, tucking the folder under his arm as he makes his way over to the table. The woman glances up at him from the corner of her eye. “What does the hostess want you to ask us, Edward?”

And he had thought they were being subtle. Placing the folder on the table, he folds his hands. “Nothing, ma’am.” She fixes him with a stare as her dining partner snags the check. It is a pretty terrifying look, Edward has to admit, and he finds himself quailing underneath it. “She’s just—curious about Mr. Fitz. He’s had a reservation here for three months and he’s never come. She’s trying to get me to ask you about him.”

The woman glances over his shoulder at Chelsea. “What does she want to know?”

“Oh, well”—he sends an apology out into the universe—“if we can ever expect to see him?”

“Yes,” she says, at the same time the man says, “no.” She turns to him and raises both eyebrows, mouth taking a grim line. “Yes,” she says again, emphatically. “When Simmons comes home, they will be here.”

The man scoffs and pushes back in his chair. “Bob, I want her to come back as much as the next person, but it’s been three months. Every lead he gets is a dead end.  Even if he finds out what happened, the chances that she’s still alive—”

“Simmons is like steel. I’d bet on her surviving whatever it is longer than you would.”

“But three months, Bob. And _no_ closer.”

“You don’t know that,” the woman maintains. “We don’t know what his leads will turn into, and we don’t know what she’s doing to get back to us—we don’t know anything, except that he’ll try to find her until he knows what happened to her beyond a shadow of doubt.”

Edward listens without seeming to, a trick waiters learn early and he mastered long ago. Of course, you weren’t supposed to say anything about what you heard, but in this case he couldn’t help himself. “So she didn’t go away so long on purpose.”

They both turn to look at him, apparently having forgotten his presence. “What?” the man says, shaking his head, “no, she didn’t. Fitz and Simmons are one for the ages, man. You could write epic poems about them.”

“So she will come someday,” he repeats.

The woman smiles sadly, nodding her head. “We hope.”

He takes the folder with the credit card to the cash register, where Chelsea had suddenly discovered some very urgent business. “Well?”

“It’s a love story,” he tells her as he swiped the card. “The reservation is Mr. Fitz’s way of hoping for a happy ending.”

The next week when Mr. Fitz calls, Edward makes sure he is the one to pick it up. The voice on the other end sounds flat out exhausted, though neither more nor less hopeful than any time before. Edward removes the reservation for that night with a swipe. “Thank you for letting us know. We hope to see you next week.”

Mr. Fitz gives a short, incredulous laugh. “Not likely.”

“But we can hope, sir.” He wishes the words back as soon as he says them. The man has done nothing but hope this whole time, if his friends are to be believed. He doesn’t need anyone telling him to hold on. At the same, Edward is glad he said it. Mr. Fitz can’t know he meant anything specific. And maybe Edward’s tiny bit of hope will help.

The man sighs. “I’m trying.”

The months stretch on. Chelsea graduates and quits, leaving Vincenzo’s with strict instructions that if Mr. Fitz and his star-crossed lover come she is to be told immediately. They change the color of their napkins in an attempt to be more rustic, then change it back. Like clockwork, Mr. Fitz calls and cancels. The new host, Josh, has begun keeping a list of any context clues he could pick up: “there is definitely a loudspeaker in some other language,” he might say, or “it sounded like machinery, not big stuff but more like appliances,” or “I think he hasn’t slept in, like, a week—I know sleep deprivation.” Once Edward picks up and hears a woman’s voice cancelling on Fitz’s behalf—he thinks it’s the woman who came to the restaurant, but he isn’t sure. Each week, Edward comes up with a new menu in the back of his notebook: expensive wine, humble wine, red, white, coffee with Irish cream, liqueurs, and once, when Josh reported jubilation, champagne. Nothing, every time. He begins to wonder how Mr. Fitz bears the endless waiting.

In early September, Edward has one of those nights that are wonderful for the wallet and horrible for sanity—he’s run off his feet from beginning to end, too busy to remember his name, much less what day it is. So when he stops by the table and asks the young man sitting there if he is ready to order or if he is waiting for someone, the familiar voice comes as quite a shock.

“I’ll order. Um, can I start with…I’ll have spaghetti Bolognese, please.”

“Mr. Fitz!” he exclaims in spite of himself.

The man glances up from the menu he is reading as if his life depends on it. “Oh, you’re Edward. Hi.”

“Good evening,” he says, trying not to stare. “It’s good to see you here at last. Is that two orders?” The napkin in front of the empty chair hasn’t been disturbed, but he hopes beyond hope she’s just in the bathroom or getting something from the car. He wouldn’t be here without her, would he?

Mr. Fitz scrubs his hands over his face and up into his hair, making him look, if possible, more disheveled and drained. “Just one. But, um, you do gluten-free pasta here, yeah?”

Edward nods, not trusting his voice.

“I’ll have that, then. Got to make sure it’s good. That’s what she’ll want when she gets back.” He hands the menu back to Edward and leans back in the chair, thumb bouncing nervously against the table top. “But it’s preference, so you don’t have to worry about contamination.”

Tucking the menu under his arm, Edward nods again and departs to put in the order, head spinning. In all his plans he has never thought of a solo meal—at least, not a solo meal that isn’t also a memorial. His first inclination is to dash out to the nearest corner store for the strongest booze he can find, but that is impractical as well as technically against the rules. He throws up his mental hands and grabs the water pitcher. Best to just take Mr. Fitz’s lead.

Mr. Fitz apparently didn’t care much what he drank or ate, abandoning bits of bread in the balsamic-and-oil as often as he put them in his mouth. Checking his phone every two minutes, he toys with the pasta rather than eating it, dragging his meal out until the restaurant starts to clear. Edward watches him worriedly as he dashes past. Maybe it is a memorial, after all—never once in all these months would he have used the word “listless” to describe Mr. Fitz, but that’s the only one that applies now. He wishes he had time to stop and talk, but it is all he can do to make sure that the young man keeps his glass filled. Around eleven, when the rest of the staff are clearing tables and collecting centerpieces, Edward brings a to-go container to the table. “Mr. Fitz? I’m sorry, but we’ll be closing soon. Did you want to take the rest of your meal home?”

Blinking at the room around as if he has forgotten where he is, Mr. Fitz starts to stand. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t—um, yeah, someone will eat it. I don’t care for it much myself, but she’ll like it.”

Edward begins scraping the pasta into the container. “I hope she does, sir. And did you need any dessert this evening?”

The question is automatic and he doesn’t really expect a response. So when Mr. Fitz starts crying, of all things, he is more than more than a little taken aback. “I’m sorry,” the young man chokes, “only, it’s her birthday today. She doesn’t like fuss but I always make it—giant sundaes and chocolate cake and—” He drops back in the chair, wiping his eyes with a thumb and forefinger before pressing the home button on his phone yet again. No alerts wait, only a slightly out of focus picture of Mr. Fitz and a girl in front of what looked like a South American temple. It is her, Edward knows, and with that he knows there is no way he is letting Mr. Fitz out of here like this. Dropping the fork, he pats his shoulder once, twice. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

Blowing past Josh’s confused _what-the-heck_ face, Edward bangs into the kitchen. “What have we got left for dessert?” he asks, “preferably something chocolate. The lava cake. Tiramisu.”

The chef looks at him incredulously. “Dessert? Who has dessert left? Did you see how busy we were tonight?”

“It’s an emergency.” Clanking pots together, the chef doesn’t dignify that with a response. “Please,” Edward says, his natural dignity evaporating, “Mr. Fitz is out there and it’s her birthday. I can’t let him leave without cake.”

“Mr. Fitz?” The chef looks up sharply. “Permanent reservation, hope-for-a-happy-ending, I’ll-find-her-or-die Mr. Fitz?” He glares at Edward’s wide-eyed surprise. “Yeah, what do you think the hostesses do on their breaks? We’ve heard all about him. There’s no cake left, but I can get one out in about a half-hour. Hold him until then.”

Grateful, Edward nods and dashes back to the table, grabbing a glass and a bottle of wine as he passes the bar. If he is going to have to stall, he is going to take advantage of the opportunity. Mr. Fitz, eyes now only red-rimmed, looks up at him confusedly. “We’ll bring you some dessert,” Edward explains, “but in the meantime, would you like some wine? It’s Chardonnay.”

“Is that a good wine?”

In general, yes. For this situation, Edward isn’t sure. “Yes. But if you’d rather something else, I can get that too.”

“Do you have any beer?” he asks, one corner of his mouth twisting up. “Probably not. It doesn’t fit.”

“We do.” Edward motions at Josh, who is not as successful at subtle hovering as he thinks he is. “Josh, beer for Mr. Fitz. In a bottle.”

It arrives uncapped and perfectly chilled. Mr. Fitz stares at it a second before picking it up and rolling it around in his hands. “She doesn’t like beer very much, actually. But she’s used to it, so she keeps it around. That and tea. When she’s really busy, that’s all she’ll have in her refrigerator. But she still bothers me about what I eat all the time—isn’t that ridiculous?”

Edward hums an agreement.

“It’s an English thing. I don’t know _when_ she developed at taste for it—not like she is even legal at uni. Her parents aren’t big drinkers, either. That’s something I never asked.” He snorts. “One of a million things. Just add it to the list.”

Edward smiles and hopes it didn’t look pitying.

Shaking his head, Mr. Fitz says the most pathetic “cheers” Edward has ever heard and takes a swig. “That’s good, thanks. And thank you for letting me—”

He seems to struggle over the words, so Edward sits quickly to cut him off. “No trouble at all, Mr. Fitz. We’re happy to do it.”

“Haven’t you got to close up?”

“Oh, sometime,” Edward says unconcernedly. “The staff can manage for now.”

“Thanks,” Mr. Fitz says again, and takes another drink.

Uncorking the wine, Edward sets it aside to breathe. The lava cake would be a bit. Perhaps by then Mr. Fitz will want something to cut the richness. They sit in silence for a few minutes, each lost in thought. Edward knows what Mr. Fitz is thinking about and finds his own thoughts taking the same path: her, whoever she is. Simmons. Who is English, who prefers to eat healthily but is bad at it, who went to college early, who initiates tourist selfies, who is like steel and a survivor. Who is obviously loved very much. For five months Mr. Fitz has held the reservation against all hope, only caving now to make a big deal of her even in her absence. And if she still isn’t here next year, he will come again. Until Doomsday, Edward remembers, and becomes convinced that Doomsday isn’t going to be long enough.

“What’s she like?”

They are both surprised to hear Edward’s question, but Mr. Fitz sets the bottle down and leans forward eagerly. For the first time he looks alive, rather than merely existent. “Like a galaxy. She’s that beautiful, that complicated, that fascinating. That kind. Sometimes that cruel. I could study her all my life and still find new things. I have been, already, for ten years, even when we were only partners and friends. She’s my best friend in the world, but…” He drops his gaze. “More than that, too.”

Edward can’t help the tears that spring to his eyes. “Tell me a story about her.”

Mr. Fitz thinks, then smiles. “Once we had to do a dissection to pass a class, but I couldn’t do it without being sick so she passed me her bits of liver and kidney and did mine behind the teacher’s back. Still finished before anyone else, and diagnosed renal failure they didn’t know was there.”

“She’s a doctor?”

“No,” he says, “but she’ll do whatever she can to help people.”

As if the floodgates have opened, Mr. Fitz talks for the next half-hour straight, telling story after story—some funny, some sad, some so mundane only a man head over heels in love would think they were worth telling. Together, they painted a portrait of a woman worth fighting for your whole life, no matter what it cost you—not least because you knew that she would do the same thing. By the end of it, Edward is half in love with her himself. 

The lights flick off, leaving only the glow of the few remaining candles.  From the kitchen, a smaller glow winds its way across the room. The cake has finally arrived. The chef slides it onto the table in front of Mr. Fitz and shoves his hands in his pockets, looking at the group of wait staff and cooks that surround him. “One, two, three.”

In unison and in a clear trespass of copyright law, they begin singing. _Happy birthday to you_ —Edward joins in, intentionally ignoring that Mr. Fitz looks ready to cry again— _happy birthday to you. Happy birthday dear…_

They stop, stricken. Edward glances at Mr. Fitz in horror. How could they have been so stupid? But he looks up from the burning candles, his face almost as bright. “Jemma,” he says. “Her name’s Jemma.”

Relieved, they begin the line over. _Happy birthday, dear Jemma, happy birthday to you._

“And many more,” Edward adds, and Mr. Fitz nods before closing his eyes and blowing out the candle. Somehow, Edward thinks everyone there is making the same wish.

The next Tuesday, the owner calls Edward into her office to explain why exactly there is a charge for a bottle of wine and a chocolate lava cake rung up long after closing time. The owner has not built up a string of very successful restaurants by accepting half-answers and does not allow “late customer” as a valid response now, either, so Edward is forced to explain the whole five month-long story, half-detail by half-detail, hoping beyond hope that he is doing Mr. Fitz and his Jemma justice. The owner listens impassively, doodling. When Edward reaches the end of his story, she still doesn’t look up. “So you’ve been holding a table for months?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re going to keep doing so?”

“Yes,” Edward says, fully aware he may have just signed his death sentence.

“Mm.” The owner sets the pencil down and sighs. “Well, it doesn’t seem to have affected business before. Just don’t let this happen again.”

“No, ma’am.”

“And, Edward, if she ever does come, you give them a bottle of wine on the house.”

A grin spreads across his face. “Yes, ma’am.”

That next Saturday, Mr. Fitz clears his throat just as Edward is about to hang up. “Um, about last week—thank you, for that. I don’t usually, um, just word vomit all over people, but…”

“Not a problem,” he says. “I was happy to listen.”

It is a month after that that Mr. Fitz calls from what sounds like a run-down wind tunnel. “Not this week, Edward.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. We have some very nice asparagus in.”

“She’ll like that,” he says grimly, and suddenly shouts something in an unfamiliar language. Edward has learned by now not to comment. “Got to go. I’ll talk to you next week, yeah?”  

“Of course,” Edward says.

On Thursday, they’re getting ready for dinner service when Christy hands him the phone with a confused look. “It’s Mr. Fitz. He wants to speak with you.”

Edward checks to make sure that he hasn’t missed a few days of his week and smoothes down his jacket before picking up. “Hello?”

“Edward?” Mr. Fitz says, “yeah, um, I’ve got a favor to ask. So, Jemma’s back—”

He feels his heart bursting in his chest. She’s back! The words he has nearly given up expecting to hear. He wants to shout, but holds it in. “She is,” he says instead, making wide, enthusiastic gestures at Christy. “I’m very glad to hear that, sir.”

As Christy’s eyes widen and she dashes to the kitchen to spread the news, he listens to Mr. Fitz explain. “Yeah, we got her back a few days ago.”

“How—how is she?”

Mr. Fitz pauses. “She’s…really well, all things considered. But, look, she’s got some pretty severe PTSD she’s dealing with. I want to do something nice for her, something to give her a new good memory, but I don’t know that she can handle a lot of distractions…can we—is there a way—”

His mind is already whirring. “Of course. Yes. We’ll figure it out.”

“Money’s not an issue,” he says worriedly, “I can pay whatever.”

“Of course, of course. Why don’t you call me back tomorrow morning and I’ll tell you what we’ve worked out. Saturday at six-thirty still?”

“Yeah,” Mr. Fitz says, sounding relieved. “Yeah, I’ll call you. Thanks.”

Edward gets on the phone to the owner immediately. Her son came back from Iraq with PTSD so bad he couldn’t open a can of soda without having an episode, so he feels confident she will understand. “What are the reservations like?” she asks, and when he checks the book he thinks that the universe is rooting for these two.

“It’s empty, ma’am. We don’t have any reservations on Saturday.”

“Then do it,” she says promptly. “Charge him half the fee for a private party but don’t let on that’s what it is, and close out the restaurant that night.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh, Edward, if she’s like my son she won’t want a lot of people. Keep everyone back. Maybe you should just handle it.”

“With pleasure,” he says, never having meant those words as much as he does now.

Christy and Josh are not pleased at their banishment, but he promises to let them hide out in the kitchen as long as they stay out of sight. The chef immediately begins planning an elaborate gluten-free special made entirely with fresh produce, just in case, and finds time between services to hand-letter the menu. For his part, Edward is the one who makes sure the roses are de-thorned and the napkins spotless, and he chills four different wines before making up his mind as to the perfect choice. It’s red, full-bodied, mature, but with undertones that speak of spring and new beginnings. Since the house is paying for it, it’s also quite expensive. Edward refuses to feel guilty about that. These two deserve it.

On the day, Chelsea shows up to help fold napkins and place silverware, joining merrily in the buzz of excitement that fills the room. Edward listens and marvels, knowing the excitement beating in his veins and imagining what Mr. Fitz must be feeling. Together, they light the candles and turn down the lights, making sure everything is straight and perfect, even the things the dining couple will never see. At six-twenty, he shoos everyone into the kitchen and places his crisp white cloth over his arm. He’ll give them a minute before approaching, let her get used to the space before adding his presence. And he can’t help wanting to watch her a minute by himself. He doesn’t doubt she’ll be everything Mr. Fitz says, but he wants to know, anyway.

She is. She is different, too, caved in on herself and shrinking, but he can see her intelligence in her eyes and her courage in her curled hair, and the way she clings to Mr. Fitz’s hand speaks more than either of them knows about how much she cares for him, too. Mr. Fitz watches her like he still can’t believe his eyes. Edward watches Mr. Fitz the same way. It almost doesn’t seem possible that this is the same man that sat here last month fighting tears. They look the same, true, but everything else is different—his whole attitude, from his posture to the steady contentment that radiates off of him, speaks to a man whose world makes sense again. “Mr. Fitz,” he says, trying to imbue his tone with all the warmth that fills his chest, “we’re delighted to see you. Your table is right this way.”

They trail behind him silently, and he manages to keep from looking back. He reaches for the wine he picked and sets it on the table, a gift offering that doesn’t say enough. “The wine is a gift from us.” Daring to look at her, he smiles gently as Mr. Fitz sheds his coat. Somehow, she manages to push up the corners of her mouth up enough that he knows she’s trying to smile back. “Very persistent young man here. We’ve been holding this reservation for months. I’m delighted that you’re finally here.”

He’s said delighted twice. Oh well. She’s entirely stopped noticing him, too busy making what he’s heard Christy call “heart-eyes” at Mr. Fitz to remember that Edward exists, so he pretends he doesn’t and slips towards the kitchen. Grouped around the security feed, Christy and Chelsea are cooing over how adorable they are and berating Josh for not mentioning how hot Mr. Fitz is, to which he responds that he’s into girls and has no idea how hot any man is. Edward shushes them. The feed is silent, of course, but he can’t help noticing that they haven’t yet poured the wine he has so carefully selected. He hesitates. Leave them to their mutual heart-eyes or butt in? But he’ll have to butt in anyway, won’t he? Sooner is probably better than later, he thinks, so that he doesn’t run the risk of bothering them in the middle of something more important, so he glides back out to pour and take orders.

It is the wrong decision. Feeling like he’s run over a puppy, he beats a hasty retreat and turns towards the monitors. “She’s crying,” Christy says, tearing up a little in sympathy. “Why is she crying?”

“Maybe she’s happy?” Josh suggests.

Chelsea shakes her head. “No. No, look at the way she’s clinging to him. Something’s wrong.”

Edward cuts through the circle and flips off the monitor. Two things are very clear: one, this is a private moment that they have no business seeing. Two, they have been treating this all wrong. For the staff at Vincenzo’s this was the end of the story, the part where the victorious prince kisses the princess and all that’s left is happily ever after. For Mr. Fitz and for Jemma, the quest is still ongoing. They are reunited, but not triumphant. Not yet. He sighs heavily, more sorry than he can say. In the exhale, though, comes clarity. He knows what he needs to do.

When, fifteen minutes later, Mr. Fitz comes to the kitchen door and apologizes shamefacedly, Edward is ready. He cuts off the explanation by handing the other man two to-go containers of spaghetti Bolognese, one with gluten-free pasta and one without. “It’s all right, sir. Of course we understand.”

Mr. Fitz looks down at the meal in his hands and nods. “I really appreciate everything. I know she does, too, she just…”

“That’s all right,” Edward says again. “I’ll just put you in the book for next week.”

A light goes on in Mr. Fitz’s eyes, and he sets his jaw. There it is—a look that means next time, they’ll be having champagne. “Yeah, I’ll call you. Keep it as long as it takes.”

**Author's Note:**

> "Just write a little thing," I said! "It won't be very long," I said! Obviously, I need to work on my estimating. Please forgive the gratuitous amount of wait staff feels.


End file.
